


Keep that Mutt on a Leash

by varron



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Collars, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varron/pseuds/varron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy cackles gleefully when Brandon straightens up and makes to take off for the kitchen and Brandon doesn't even think twice, just steps close and wraps Mogali's collar around Andy's neck, chuckling as he slips the buckle close. "There." Brandon grins. "Unruly mutts get collared."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep that Mutt on a Leash

**Author's Note:**

> So I was lurking around tumblr, minding my own business, when [this](http://queeniegalore.tumblr.com/post/56774137247/i-look-at-this-and-all-i-can-see-is-bollig-and) and [this](http://serenadestrong.tumblr.com/post/56744486743/precious-her-bring-you-his-own-lead-oh-look-at) slaps me in the face during my nightly recon of queeniegalore and serenadestrong respectively (do I have to warn for nsfw when you’re reading porn on ao3?) And that spawned this humble homage to joatamon's fic [Anger Management](800629) which is quite simply an exercise in perfection. Except this is mostly unapologetic porn, so. I should probably warn for some poorly communicated bondage kink and dom/sub that isn’t so much negotiated as just stumbled into wildly and without caution, though when writing about hockey players I don’t imagine anything is ever communicated well (repeating the word ‘fun’ or variations thereof is not communicating anymore, it has lost all meaning, like the Neanderthal ‘ugh’). But in any case, be aware that here there be collars, unsafe sex, and possible spirit animal Mogali Keith, so if that doesn’t float your boat, please have this oar and kindly paddle away, for your own safety! (I sometimes wish someone had given me an oar when I first discovered there was fic written about the sport I loved…but at least I’ll drown a very, very happy girl, so there’s that).

-

When Duncs’ kid is born, Brandon goes to the party with the rest of the team the weekend after they win the series against the Wild. They’d all be out celebrating, getting drunk and laid and whatnot, if it wasn’t the playoffs. But seeing as it is, party might actually be a bit of an exaggeration, it’s mostly just a bunch of hockey players sat around the Keiths’ living room while Duncs shows off the baby and looks every bit as protective and proud as one would expect from a new dad.

“He’s so tiny.” Saader says, and they’d probably chirp him out for how wide-eyed and awed he is, except that’s pretty much the expression on everybody’s face right now. It’s amazing how they can go up against any team in the Western Conference, knuckles bared and skates blazing, but be caught completely off guard and unprepared by a little lump of an infant.

Brandon is leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, looking on as Carbomb of all people rocks the baby slowly and carefully. It's a cute kid, as far wrinkly, pink, miniature humans go and Duncs and Kelly-Rae seem to be doing well. He can’t help but notice though, that one member of the family appears less enthused by the newcomer; Duncs’ dog has been moping in a corner the entire time they’ve been there.

“I’m worried he’s suffering from sleep deprivation.” Duncs says next to him, appearing out of exactly nowhere, crazy eyes and everything, staring at Brandon in ways that would be decidedly creepy if it wasn’t for the fact that that’s just how Duncs’ face looks, and it takes everything in Brandon to choke back a yelp.

“What?” Being cornered by Sharpy or Duncs is still high on Brandon’s list of things to avoid at all costs when playing for the Blackhawks, right alongside getting caught by Tazer’s murder-glare and letting Kaner pick the music.

“Mogali sleeps twenty hours a day.” Duncs explains solemnly.

And that’s how Brandon ends up receiving kisses on both cheeks from a grateful looking Kelly-Rae, bag of dog food in one hand and Mogali’s leash in the other.

It’s only when he’s standing outside that he comes to think of why Mogali staying with him might not prove the relaxing experience he’s promised the Keiths. That reason being Andy, who looks decidedly unimpressed when the front door closes behind them.

“You said yes to babysit his lazy-ass dog?” Thing is, Andy’s been camped out on Brandon’s couch for the better part of the season, claiming that his own hotel room is too empty and too quiet and proceeding to have Brandon’s television turned on twenty-four-seven, insisting that Brandon play everything from Mario Kart to Cluedo with him and always, always keeping up a constant stream of noise, be it chatter or just one sided ranting about anything and everything. Bottom line being that Andrew Shaw is possibly the least peaceful human being Brandon has ever known. “And where is he supposed to sleep?”

Brandon would suggest Mogali sleep on the couch and Andy go sleep in his own bed, the bed that is in his own hotel room, that is not in Brandon’s apartment, but he has a feeling that might not go down so well. Hockey players in general are notoriously emotionally stunted and Brandon guesses Andy would rather take a puck to the face than admit he’s feeling lonely. And it’s not like Brandon would ever sit down and have a heart to heart with Andy about how he’s scared that he’ll be sent down to Rockford again next season and if that’s why Q hasn’t played him since game three. He doesn’t expect Andy to fall over himself trying to explain what exactly his deal is with noise and motion and why the two need to be combined in Brandon’s apartment of all places either. They’re good friends, but there’s a difference between slapping someone’s ass on a daily basis and talking about your feelings.

“I guess he can sleep in my bed.” Brandon says instead, and watches Andy’s nose scrunch up ridiculously.

“This is stupid.” Andy mutters and gets into the passenger seat of Brandon’s car.

“You like dogs.” That leaves Brandon assisting Mogali in a very ungraceful leap into the backseat before making his way around and sliding in next to Andy.

“Yeah, I like fun dogs. That,” Andy’s huffs, “is not a fun dog.”

The rear-view mirror reveals that Mogali has already passed out.

-

It doesn’t come as a surprise that, four days into the arrangement, Andy and Mogali aren’t getting along any better. That is to say, Mogali doesn’t wake up until Brandon and Andy are home from practice which makes Andy sulk about having to get up early, Brandon takes Mogali for walks twice a day which makes Andy sulk about it taking time away from their important videogame schedule, and Mogali sleeps in Brandon’s bed at night which makes Andy irrationally pissy for no reason Brandon can figure out.

They play the first game against Detroit that night, or well, Andy does, Brandon watches. He’s not bitter though, he wants his team to win and if their best chance at doing that is without Brandon then that’s how it’s got to be, he gets that. It still sucks balls being in dress shoes instead of skates though, makes him feel off balanced in some weird, reversed way.

Andy does well, stays mostly out of trouble with only two penalties to his name and they end up winning four to one. They go out with some of the boys after, just to burn off some excess adrenaline, but Brandon doesn’t join in on the increasingly raunchy storytelling going on, sits back and just relaxes instead.

“How’s Mogali?” Seabs is nursing his beer like Brandon, sitting back in the booth they’ve claimed for themselves and watching Kaner try to coax Saader into having outrageously pink cider with him while Tazer looks on with what’s probably supposed to be aloof condescension, but comes off more as fond amusement.

“Sleeping for the most part.” Brandon offers and just manages to save his bottle before Andy and Carbomb come crashing into the table, Hammer trailing behind them with a grin. Andy drops down into the seat next to Brandon, tilts dangerously to the right and ends up leaning into Brandon’s shoulder. He’s hot and sticky where their arms touch and Brandon shifts until he can throw his arm up and around Andy. He likes keeping Andy close, makes it easier to keep an eye on him.

“That dog is a fucking menace.” Andy grumbles and tips his head back into the crook of Brandon’s elbow. Had it been anyone else, Brandon would have suspected they’d had too much to drink, but Andy gets like this after barely half a bottle, clingy with Brandon and looking for an argument with anybody else.

“He giving you trouble?” Seabs asks confusedly.

“Nah, just Shawzy being a brat.” Brandon cuffs the brat in question over the head and Andy squeaks indignantly, but doesn’t move away. “Can’t bear sharing my apartment with that snoring lump of a dog.”

“You’re a snoring lump.” Andy mutters and tips his bottle to his lips. Brandon watches his throat work.

It doesn’t register at the time, and maybe Brandon should have eaten something before going out drinking, but Seabs looks at them really funny for a while after that while Carbomb engages Andy in a heated discussion about which Bourne film is better except neither of them can keep the titles straight.

When they get home, Andy is happy and clumsy like he gets when he’s a particular combination of tired and buzzed, bouncing his shoes across the hallway when he kicks them off and hanging onto Brandon’s shoulder giggling when Brandon tries to steer him toward the living room.

“C’mon Shawzy, go to sleep.” Brandon gives him a push and Andy goes sprawling across the couch, looking every bit of twenty one and sloppily tipsy, dopy grin on his face.

Before Brandon can walk away to find Advil and water for the both of them – they didn’t have much to drink, but he’s not going to risk even a little bit of nausea in the morning, not during playoffs – Andy grabs onto his pant leg, reflexes quick despite his aim being slightly off, and he ends up clutching Brandon’s knee. “Wanna sleep in your bed.”

Brandon thinks he must’ve heard him wrong, but he doesn’t miss it when Andy mumbles grumpily. “Fucking dog fucking everything up.”

Then Andrew flips dramatically onto his stomach with a grunt and falls promptly asleep, drooling a little on his forearm and leaving Brandon with an oncoming headache and a dog that not only takes up two thirds of his bed at any given time, but farts all night through, too.

Brandon honestly has no idea how he ended up the team kennel for unruly mutts and other canines.

-

They drop the next three games and Andy goes a little crazy.

To be fair, all the guys have gone quiet and tense and the ride home would be silent as only hockey players staring down elimination can get, a mix of absolute determination to be better and the ice cold fear of losing on everyone’s faces, if it wasn’t for Andy’s angry mutterings coming from the back of the bus growing steadily more frantic as Saader refuses to respond.

Brandon would ignore him, pop his earphones in and nap until they’re home, or at least close his eyes and pretend to, but he can see the tense set of Toews’ shoulders two rows up and Bickell keeps cracking his knuckles like he’s considering punching Shawzy out to shut him up. That might actually work.

When Brandon makes his way to the back, Saader looks at him like he’s the second coming of Gretzky and practically runs away to go sit with Kaner or Sharpy, or anywhere that’s far away from Andy most likely.

“Hey, Mutt.” Brandon knocks the phone out of Andy’s hands when he sits down.

“What the fuck, gimme that, what the hell man.” Andy’s face is twisted and angry, like it normally only is when he’s on the ice fighting and Brandon wonders if that’s what Andy wants right now, a fight. It would feel good, Brandon knows, to grab the collar of Andy’s shirt and bruise his knuckles on Andy’s face; the two of them never quite figured out how to include the ‘play’ in ‘play fight’.

He doesn’t get one, Brandon knows better, but he does push Brandon to his limits, chirping and nagging the whole way back and by the time Brandon is driving them home from the United Centre, he’s had enough.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Andy takes a break from his ranting to peer out of the car window. “Where are we?”

Brandon’s hands are tight on the wheel and he’s ready to kick Andy to the curb any minute now. “I’m taking you back to your place.” What Brandon needs is sleep and possibly mindless television and definitely an empty apartment if he’s going to make it to practice tomorrow and skate like they didn’t lose and like he isn’t off the starting roster.

“No!” If Brandon wasn’t so pissed at him, he’d take a moment to note the desperation in Andy’s voice. He does have the presence of mind to realize that most of his anger is probably not about Andy at all, but it’s easier to direct it at him than consider all the ways Brandon’s life is so fucked up right now.

He's so lost in his own head that for a moment he doesn’t even notice that the car has gone silent. When he does, he waits until the next red light to glance over at Andy and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Andy looks angry still, jaw clenched and hands balled up into fists in his lap, but his eyes have gone huge and dark and Brandon isn’t imagining the fear in them and it hits him like a punch to the stomach; Andy is scared.

Brandon’s never seen Andy scared before. Not even that time in practice when they were messing around and Brandon got a hand around Andy’s throat and squeezed too hard. Brandon had been scared that time, scared of what his own hands could do to Andy if he lost control. But Andy had laughed loud and crazy and kicked Brandon in the balls.

The light turns green and Brandon takes the next left and drives them both to his apartment. Andy stays mercifully quiet, but Brandon would almost prefer the chatter to this chilled silence that’s stretching between them.

The apartment is dimly lit by the glow from the city outside when they get there and Brandon doesn’t bother turning on any lights. Mogali comes shuffling out of Brandon’s bedroom and he busies himself with the collar and leash while Andy takes his shoes off and disappears into the half dark of the living room.

When Brandon comes back inside a while later, the fresh air and Moagli’s unruffled company having calmed him better than even a long run could, he sees Andy’s silhouette on the couch, curled in on himself and rocking slowly back and forth. And Brandon wants to go to him, wants to wrap him in a hug and ask what’s going through that busy head of his, wants to grab the back of his neck and shake him until Andy slumps tired and boneless in his hold. But he’s not sure if it would do either of them any good tonight, if they’d be able to keep their tempers, their fists, to themselves.

Brandon goes to bed alone, even Mogali choosing to sleep on the floor.

-

The next day, Andy is hoarse and grumpy, but caffeine makes him bearable and Brandon cooks them a huge breakfast, like maybe he can make Andy eat his problems instead of having to talk about them.

They take Mogali out together and the more awake Andy becomes the more high strung he gets until he’s vibrating next to Brandon, spouting bullshit and swearing like it’s going out of fashion. He keeps nudging Brandon, too, like he wants to play tag, but doesn't know how to ask. Yesterday, Brandon would have gotten pissed off at this kind of stuff, but today, Andy's good mood is infectious and Brandon finds himself playing along, swinging jokingly at Andy when he comes close enough and smacking his ass hard when he tries to run away with a squeak.

Mogali lifts his head curiously, probably debating whether or not to chase after Andy, but he leaves it with a wag of his tail, dropping down to sniff all enthralled at the ground again.

When they finally get back, Andy steals Brandon's cap while Brandon is busy removing Mogali's leash and lords it over his head smugly as if he isn't half a head shorter than Brandon and it won't take much of an effort to get it back. He's got this infuriatingly cute smirk on his face, made all the more ridiculous by his patchy excuse of a moustache and Brandon just wants to put him in a headlock and make him cry uncle.

Andy cackles gleefully when Brandon straightens up and makes to take off for the kitchen and Brandon doesn't even think twice, just steps close and wraps Mogali's collar around Andy's neck, chuckling as he slips the buckle close. "There." Brandon grins. "Unruly mutts get collared." He laughs at his own joke.

Andy does not.

In fact, Andy goes utterly still so fast that it feels like time’s frozen and they're hovering between one second and the next. Andy's mouth that was a moment ago running a mile a minute hangs half open and lax, smirk gone and face unreadable. The memory of Andy silent and terrified in the car yesterday makes Brandon’s chest seize up, but when he looks at Andy's eyes, they're not wet with contained tears. Andy's eyelids are drooping, pupils blown and Andy blinks slowly, as if in a haze.

"Shawzy?" Brandon absently notices that Mogali's fucked off somewhere and they're still stood in the hallway, Brandon's coat damp from the drizzle outside, everything so, so quiet. "Hey, Andy?"

It takes Andy a long time to respond, gaze caught somewhere on Brandon's chest before he lifts his eyes and meets Brandon's. "Whu-?" Andy's breath rattles out of him and he licks his lips, works his jaw before he tries again. "What?"

"You okay, buddy?" Brandon has no idea what's going on, only that Andy is slumping in his stance, shoulders rolling forward and hands unclenching. Brandon's cap falls to the floor forgotten.

"M'fine." Andy grins dopily, tilting closer to Brandon. "What'd you wanna do?"

And more than anything, more than the quiet and the freaky calm Andy's projecting, the fact that Andy asks what Brandon wants to do is what feels the most out of place. Andy never asks what Brandon wants to do, just always assumes he wants to play video games or wrestle or cook for Andy. "Uh, Mario Kart?" Brandon asks carefully, taking in the content look on Andy's face and the way he leans into Brandon's hand when he places it on Andy's arm to steady him as he lists slowly to the left.

"Yeah." Andy smiles again.

They play Mario Kart and Brandon sucks, more focused on the way Andy is sitting quietly next to him, limbs sprawled lazily on the couch and making these small, happy sighs every now and then. He still ends up winning half the races, mostly because Andy seems to have forgotten how the acceleration button works.

Andy wears the collar for the rest of the afternoon, black and brown leather resting snugly against the pale skin of his throat and Brandon feels more and more like this is something they shouldn't be doing.

Thing is, Andy in a collar, cheeks rosy pink and eyes hooded, is doing things to Brandon that really isn’t supposed to happen when he's hanging out with his best buddy. Brandon isn't naive, he gets that this is turning out to be a sex thing for him and hey, self-discovery and shit, Brandon's dick apparently likes bondage, who knew? But it doesn't look to be a sex thing for Andy who's currently sliding lower and lower on the couch, looking like he's going to fall asleep any second. And even if it was, Andy probably wouldn't want it to be a sex thing between the two of them. Andy doesn’t do guys, far as Brandon’s aware.

He'll admit that it's probably the most peaceful day they've ever spent together though, if horribly awkward on Brandon's end. There's something to be said about an Andy that isn't in a permanent state between angry and ecstatic.

It takes Brandon a moment to notice that Luigi has not moved from the start position and decide that it's about time they put away the game and get Andy out of the collar, for both their sanities’ sake. When he puts the control down and turns to Andy though, something stops him.

Andy is looking back at him, black eyed gaze heavy when Brandon meets it and Brandon chews his lip absent-mindedly, taking in Andy's throat, how it presses against the collar when Andy swallows. A thought flashes across his mind; he wonders what the skin feels like there, if it would be hot and clammy against Brandon’s thumb if he slipped it underneath the collar to feel.

Brandon coughs, clears his throat and rubs a hand across his head. "We should maybe..." This is not the time to get hesitant, Andy obviously isn’t going to do anything to diffuse the situation and Brandon really needs to keep a cool head here. And other places further south, too.

"Yeah." Andy's voice is rough like he's been talking all day instead of being nearly silent for the past four hours. "Anything you want." And damn, but that's tempting. Andy doesn't mean it that way though, Brandon reminds himself. Actually, Andy probably shouldn't be trusted to mean anything he says right now if Brandon is reading him right.

"Take that off?" Brandon finishes and he hasn't even had time to fully regret the words before Andy is slumping forward on the couch with a whine, brows furrowed and hands reaching for Brandon.

Brandon just manages to catch him before he faceplants on the floor and then suddenly they're close, too close, Andy's eyelashes fluttering obscenely, his hands clutching at the front of Brandon's t-shirt and his pink tongue coming out to slide across his bottom lip once, twice. Brandon groans, this is not fair. "We really should take it off, Shawzy. Fuck, I shouldn't have put it on you to begin with, it was a lousy joke, I'm sorry."

Brandon is bringing both hands behind Andy's head, fingering the buckle at the nape of Andy's neck, the soft hair there tickling his the back of his fingers as he tries to coax the leather out of the metal clasp and he's so focused on doing this without choking Andy that he doesn't even notice how close Andy's face has suddenly gotten. There is no way he can't notice though, when Andy tips forward and presses their mouths together.

Kissing Andy is different; Brandon doesn't really know how to describe it. Andy is just pushing their lips against each other, chapped and dry and nothing like the women Brandon has kissed before, his moustache soft and downy against Brandon's upper lip and nothing like the men Brandon has kissed before. Letting out a shaking sigh, Andy presses closer and oh, yeah, this was what Brandon was trying to prevent when he suggested they remove the collar because Andy is plastering himself along Brandon's front, climbing into his lap and finally moving his mouth, getting Brandon's lower lip between his own and sucking blissfully.

Somewhere between Andy wrapping his arms around Brandon's neck to get impossibly closer and the heat of Andy's mouth enveloping Brandon's lip, Brandon forgets why taking the collar off is so urgent and kisses Andy back.

It’s dizzying.

The softness of Andy’s mouth yields to Brandon’s teeth and tongue and Andy makes these tiny, whimpering noises that Brandon swallows up greedily. And Andy just opens up for him willingly, wantonly, letting Brandon lick into him, their tongues sliding slick together. He’s nothing but wet warmth and firm muscle under Brandon’s hands and it makes Brandon’s head spin with how good it is.

He remembers the collar very, very quickly a second later when Andy rocks in Brandon’s lap and grinds his ass over Brandon’s dick. Brandon’s horribly traitorous and unmistakably hard dick. Andy, the idiot, moans happily.

“Shawzer.” Brandon grits out, voice tight, and he can nearly feel Andy’s bones grinding together where Brandon clutches his hips, desperately trying to hold him still. But Brandon would rather leave bruises now than have Andy hurt later, when the fucking collar is off and Andy doesn’t want this anymore. Because Brandon is certain Andy won’t want this, won’t want him, without the collar, and Brandon could never forgive himself if he made Andy hate him.

The thought of that is enough of a shock to his system that Brandon finally gets himself under control and manages to lift Andy off. And it’s so easy, too easy, reminding Brandon that he could have stopped Andy at any time before it went this far because Brandon is strong and Andy is, in the world of hockey players at least, small. In one move he drops Andy on the couch beside him, stands up heroically ignoring the way his jeans tighten painfully on his cock, and gets a hand at the back of Andy’s head, pushing him forward until he’s hunched over. Andy grunts in surprise, but he’s still loose limbed and slow moving and Brandon makes quick work of the clasp now that he can see what he’s doing, unlatches it and pulls the collar from Andy’s neck.

When he steps back, they’re both breathing heavily and Brandon lets his hand linger for a moment, Andy’s nape warm and damp against his palm before he drops his hand away.

“Shawzy?” Brandon tries, but Andy doesn’t move, just slumps further down. “Andy?”

“Yeah, man.” Andy’s voice is absolutely wrecked when he finally speaks and Brandon can tell with the way Andy’s shoulders rise and fall that he’s working to control his breathing.

“You okay?”

Andy sits there for so long Brandon starts to worry he’s back to being spaced out, but then Andy lays down gingerly, back to Brandon and Brandon wants to see his face, wants to see if his eyes are angry, if his mouth is swollen from kissing Brandon. But he doesn’t get the chance because Andy’s next words are as much a dismissal as his turned back. “I’m gonna catch a nap.”

Mogali pads by Brandon then and climbs onto the couch, curling up behind Andy’s knees with a huff, and the fact that Andy doesn’t even move him off makes Brandon’s head hurt.

In the privacy of his own bedroom, Brandon seriously considers throwing himself down on his mattress to scream into his pillow, but he hasn’t done that since he was fifteen and sexually frustrated and while the latter is making a most annoying post-puberty comeback, Brandon hasn’t been fifteen in a long time and probably shouldn’t.

He also probably shouldn’t jerk off.

Brandon’s never been good with shouldn’t.

It’s embarrassingly short. He barely gets his pants past his knees, curling a hand around himself and slicking pre-come down his length until everything is just a smooth slide and so much heat pooling in his belly with the memory of Andy’s breathless noises, and then he realizes he still has the goddamn collar in his other hand and just like that, he arches off the bed, nearly biting through his lip to keep quiet, and comes all over himself.

After, he lays there staring at the ceiling for a while, come cooling uncomfortably on his stomach.

He isn’t bothered that he jerked off thinking about a guy, Brandon isn’t ashamed of his sexuality, he doesn’t see the point. And it’s not even the bondage really, though he’s going to have to think about why that particular aspect of it all appeals to him so much at some point. No, what makes the guilt churn in Brandon’s stomach is that he just came harder than he has by his own hands since he was a teenager, and the only thing on his mind was Andy, naked in Brandon’s lap except for a soft, brown leather collar.

-

Andy’s response to Brandon not taking advantage of him when he was on his collar-high, which is what Brandon has dubbed that particular mood of Andy’s, is to get angry, to exactly nobody’s surprise ever.

“Fuck you, you don’t know what I want!” Andy has been angry since five thirty and Brandon wonders for the umpteenth time that morning if gagging Andy would be conductive to avoiding the subject or not. On the upside it might shut him up, on the downside Brandon doesn’t know if Andy’s collar-high extends to other types of bondage and he’s not prepared to risk showing up to pre-game skate with an Andy that appears drugged off his ass. Tazer would murder him and the last thing Brandon would see would be his crazy eyes and nobody wants to go down like that, except maybe Kaner, but Brandon’s not gonna touch that with a ten foot hockey stick.

“You’re right, I don’t.” Running on only one cup of coffee so far, Brandon is concentrating really hard on not driving them off the road.

“Fucking right.” Andy kicks the glove box.

Brandon tries to remember what his teacher used to tell him about using meditation techniques to control his anger and imagines the road is the ocean and he is a ship drifting along steady waves.

“So why the fuck didn’t you?”

Steady waves.

“Why didn’t I what?” Why is this even a conversation that we’re having, is what Brandon really wants to ask. He had a moment of weakness, but he fixed it and now the proper course of action is obviously to just ignore it and move on. Why Andy insists on dragging it out doesn’t make sense, if anything he shouldn’t want to ever speak to Brandon again.

“You know.” Andy says, but it comes out sounding whiny and petulant and Brandon rolls his eyes and waits him out. Finally, Andy huffs and kicks the glove box again, clearly he has too much leg room, Brandon makes a mental note to move the seat forward. “Why did you push me off?”

“Why did I…?” And Brandon is so baffled he almost misses their turn. “What do you mean ‘why did I push you off’? Of course I pushed you off, you were all…you know.” Brandon winces at himself because, yeah, pot kettle. “You didn’t seem to know what you were doing. Do you even remember most of yesterday?”

“I was fine.” Andy grumbles. “I was just…” And then he goes silent so quick Brandon can hear the hitch in his breath.

They pull into the parking lot of the United Centre and Brandon thinks maybe that’s that.

“I liked it.”

But then when has Andy ever been what Brandon expected.

Right now, Andy is staring resolutely out the front window, jaw clenched and fingers curled around his knees. Brandon waits. They don’t really have time, but this is…this seems important.

“It went all…” Andy inhales shakily. “Quiet. Like, in my head. And, uhm, you were there. With me. And you felt…safe, I guess.”

Brandon’s fingers tingle like he’s got pins and needles and the air in the car seems heavier than before, barely enough to fill Brandon’s lungs. His palms are sweating on the steering wheel.

“It wasn’t… I didn’t do it ‘cause you were convenient or some shit.” Andy wrings his hands together, bites his lip. “I just…I felt safe with you, and the…the collar made everything more…” Someone should soothe away the frown on Andy’s forehead, kiss the tense line of his brow. Brandon, to his own absolute mortification, wants to be that someone. “Just more.” Andy breathes out carefully.

“Okay.” Brandon says and Andy’s eyes dart up to meet his.

“Yeah?” There’s a hopeful note to Andy’s voice now, a bit of fire returning to his eyes.

“Yeah.” Brandon nods because yeah, it is okay, Brandon is freaking out a little bit, but they’ll be okay.

“So can we do it again later?” Andy asks, and what?

“What?” Brandon feels for a moment like he was dumped unceremoniously into an entirely different conversation, but Andy is unbuckling himself and reaching into the back for his bag, bringing him closer to Brandon and he smells like soap and orange juice and Brandon is rapidly losing all higher brain functions. It’s a problem.

“Well.” Andy pauses, hand on the door handle. “Maybe without the collar, if it makes you uncomfortable and stuff.”

“Uh.” Brandon blinks.

“Or, like, we could work up to it?” Andy smiles and it’s this hesitant, questioning smile that tugs at something in Brandon’s chest. “And you can decide and put it on me when you’re ready?”

“Uhm.” The words ‘put it on me’ ring through Brandon’s head and the mental images that accompany them overwhelm him for a moment. Long enough for Andy to smile another one of those sweet smiles and slip out of the car.

It’s only when the car door closes after him that Brandon realizes what just went down, and when he does, he has to slump over to lean his forehead against the steering wheel and try to coax that ship metaphor back. It doesn’t do to show up at practice with a hard-on. Steady fucking waves.

-

Andy is on fire that night and scores two goals that have him breathless and glowing with pride when Brandon meets him outside the locker room.

“Fucking A, man!” The fans are screaming and music is thundering from the ice, but Brandon still hears Andy before he sees him and manages to catch him when he throws himself at Brandon with complete disregard for Brandon’s suit. Sweat is drenching the collar of Andy’s jersey and dripping down his nose, hair sticking up in weird places from the helmet, scars on his face standing out bright and pale against the red flush in his cheeks and between one moment and the next Brandon is completely blindsided by how ridiculously beautiful Andy is.

“Dude, you guys are coming out with us, right?” Kaner calls over his shoulder as he hobbles past. “We gotta celebrate those slick goals, man!”

“No shots.” Tazer shouts from down the tunnel.

Kaner throws his arms in the air and whoops. “No shots! Yeah, baby!”

Sometimes, Brandon seriously questions the choices in his life that have led him to be surrounded by these people.

“You’re coming, yeah?” Andy grins bright and happy up at him. He’s shorter than Brandon even with his skates on and when he tugs absently at the lapels of Brandon’s suit jacket, Brandon wants to grab his wrists and squeeze, wants to push Andy up against the wall and hold him there, arms above his head. That’s not new, Brandon always wants to fight Andy, fighting Andy is fun. Wanting to bite Andy’s lips bloody and lick it off though, that’s definitely different, and isn’t his head just a nice and disturbing place these days.

Brandon’s body goes warm as Andy stays close, all his attention on Brandon even as their teammates are filing past, loud and boisterous, slapping Andy’s ass and ruffling his hair on their way to the locker room. “Yeah, Mutt.” He says, ducking his gaze so he doesn’t have to look at the blackness of Andy’s eyes and remember what they’d looked like glazed over with endorphins and lust and whatever else that was last night. “I’ll come.”

Andy does a little wriggle at that that Brandon would totally mock him for if he wasn’t concentrating very hard on not thinking about Andy squirming against him with less hockey gear on. As it is, well, Brandon is a weak man when it comes to Andy.

“You stink.” He says, to divert Andy’s attention from how Brandon was definitely just staring at him with who even knows what kind of expression on his face. “Go shower, then I’ll take you out.”

“Yeah you will!” Andy laughs, backing up, and then he’s gone and Brandon can close his eyes and ignore for a few blissful moments what’s happening to his carefully constructed no sleeping with friends or teammates policy.

-

There are no shots and despite everyone’s excitement, they take it slow, enjoy a couple of beers and the feeling of finally being back on their feet, of winning. They don’t stray far from the booths they’ve taken over, and they don’t stay out late, but Brandon still feels heavy headed when he sits in the back of the darkened cab on their way home, Andy’s knee knocking against his every time they make a turn.

Andy stays close when Brandon pays the cabbie, bumps into Brandon when they climb the stairs, leans on Brandon’s back when he unlocks the door.

“Hey.” Andy says and it’s dark inside, but Brandon doesn’t need to see him, can hear his shiteating grin. “Hey, you wanna?”

“Wanna what?” Brandon should take Mogali out, but the dog is nowhere to be seen. He picks up the collar and leash anyway, is about to go looking for him, when Andy groans with something that sounds a lot like sex and suddenly Brandon’s got an armful of Shawzy and his disastrous facial hair.

“Fuck yeah.” Andy mumbles and squirms closer, hands coming up to paw at Brandon’s shoulders and breath hot where he mouths along Brandon’s jaw. Brandon thinks he might’ve been going for a kiss and missed, but Andy doesn’t seem deterred, dragging his lips against the rough of Brandon cheek and Brandon has to circle Andy’s waist with one arm and try not to come on the spot to the thought of all the places on Andy he wants to rub his beard.

Down his neck, along his ribs, up the soft inside of his thighs.

“Geez, Mutt, you really want this, don’t you?” And Brandon is giving in, has been ever since Andy caught his gaze across the bar and looked at Brandon like he wanted to get on his knees for him right there, but if Andy says no now, laughs it off as some big prank, Brandon is going to whop his ass and then have the longest, coldest shower known to man.

“Yes!” Andy whines, going up on his toes to press himself firmly against Brandon.

Brandon kisses Andy then, tries to keep it slow, but neither of them have the patience and Andy gasps into Brandon’s mouth when Brandon bites his lower lip, drags his tongue across it to soothe the sting. Andy kisses messy, is sloppy with it like Brandon hasn’t been since he was a teenager, frantic and desperate. He mewls into the kiss, sucks on Brandon’s tongue and Brandon groans, pulls Andy in impossibly tighter and then does what he’s wanted to do all night and pushes Andy up against the wall, hard.

“Yes, fuck, yes!” Andy fights, of course Andy fights, tries to push off the wall, grips Brandon’s biceps and shoves at him with a breathless laugh. He throws his head back a little with it and Brandon doesn’t hesitate, closes his teeth around the soft skin where Andy’s neck meets the collar of his shirt and bites down. It makes Andy writhe and Brandon drops the leash and collar in favour of getting both his hands under Andy’s ass and hoisting him up, forcing him still between the wall and Brandon’s body.

They’re making an unholy ruckus, Andy moaning easily and loudly as Brandon works his neck with his teeth and tongue, tasting the warmth of blood under his lips as he draws it up to paint Andy’s skin a pretty red and purple. Andy kicks against the wall again before bringing both legs up to wrap around Brandon’s waist, riding down on Brandon’s cock and making Brandon let loose a string of colourful swears.

There’s the clicking of nails against hardwood floors and Mogali trudges out from Brandon’s bedroom and past them with an exasperated woof in their direction. Brandon acts on instinct, lifting Andy away from the wall and carrying him on mostly steady legs the short way through the door, dumping him on Brandon’s bed with a squeak.

Andy looks so surprised for a second, mouth open and eyes wide, like he didn’t think Brandon was strong enough to carry him like that. “Fuck, Brandon.” Andy says and spreads his legs like the little shit disturber he is.

Brandon climbs up between Andy’s knees on the mattress, doesn’t let go of his gaze when he puts his hands on Andy’s thighs and rubs the seam of his pants with his thumbs. There’s something so terrifyingly young about Andy then, when he gets his elbows up under him and watches raptly as Brandon slides his hands up to Andy’s belt, the vulnerable way his breath hitches when Brandon tugs the buckle loose firmly, getting the button popped and his zipper down so that Brandon can finally drag Andy’s pants off him and get his hands on naked skin. Like Andy’s never been with a man before, and if Brandon wasn’t straining in his own pants already, that’d get him there.

Everything is so quiet around them, Brandon can hear his own heartbeat pounding away, Andy’s ragged breathing and the wet sound when he releases his lower lip from where he’s been chewing on it. He makes such a good image stretched out in front of Brandon, tented boxers and shirt pushed up his belly, lips swollen and cheeks flushed.

“You ever done this before, Shawzy?” Brandon smooths his hands up Andy’s legs, trails his fingertips down again, against the soft inside of his thighs, the knobby sides of his knees and to his skinny ankles, hooks his thumbs into Andy’s socks and strips them off. Andy twitches when Brandon lets his palms brush the underside of Andy’s feet.

“Fuck you.” Andy hisses, hips jerking futilely into the air.

“C’mon.” Brandon wants him naked, knee walks until he’s got Andy’s legs resting on Brandon’s thighs. He works the buttons of Andy’s shirt, exposing Andy’s chest as he goes, his muscles jumping under Brandon’s hands. He’s strung so tight under Brandon’s touch, Brandon just wants to hold him down and fuck every last bit of tension out of him. “Tell me what you want, Mutt.”

Andy responds by pushing up and kissing Brandon, whining and twisting when Brandon grips his shirt tight around his arms and gets him down flat on the mattress, kissing past Andy’s neck and finally getting his beard on the smooth expanse of skin along Andy’s collar bone. Andy doesn’t let up on the noises as Brandon moves down his chest, licks across one nipple and nips sharply at the other, it drives Brandon insane, like Andy can’t get enough of him and Brandon hasn’t even gotten his mouth on Andy’s dick yet.

“Wanna blow you.” Brandon groans, mouths at Andy’s stomach, licks at the hollow by his hip. The skin smells sweet there, of body wash and cotton, and it’s warm and damp with sweat under Brandon’s tongue. “You gonna let me, Shawzy?”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck.” Andy’s thrown his head back, hands moving restlessly over Brandon’s shoulders and up the back of his head, rubbing across Brandon’s hair. “Please.”

Andy has never said please before, not to anything. Brandon is all about rewarding good behaviour.

Andy’s dick is a bulging line in his boxers, the fabric gone wet and dark at the head and Brandon puts his mouth right there, laves his tongue across the saltiness, feels out the shape of Andy and sucks a little, listens to Andy’s gasping breaths. He’s so easy for it.

When Brandon tugs Andy’s boxers down and licks a broad stripe up Andy’s dick, root to tip, tongue resting over the head while Andy jerks in his hold, Andy curses and digs his fingernails into Brandon’s neck until he can feel the little, blue half-moons embedded in his skin.

“Ease up.” He tells Andy, captures his wrists and puts them either side of Andy’s hips, shuffles closer until he’s got Andy lifted up into his lap. Andy arches and moans, cock bopping against his belly and leaving a sticky trail against the downy hair there. “I’ll take care of you.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying right now, all his focus on the heat of Andy’s dick and Andy’s pulse underneath his fingertips. The position isn’t great for sucking Andy off in and Brandon’s back protests when he bends nearly in double to slide his mouth down as much of Andy’s dick as he can fit in his mouth, but Andy goes crazy for being held tight like this, Brandon can feel it in the way he vibrates against Brandon, moans gone breathless and needy.

Brandon closes his eyes, breathes in the musk and the sweat and the sex coming off them both. Andy’s dick is heavy on Brandon’s tongue, salty and slick and Brandon tightens around it, wants to make this good for Andy, wants to make it the best he’s ever had. He rubs his tongue up against the underside of the head, licks down and gets Andy wet with spit and then he sucks, hard. Andy comes off the bed until only his shoulders are touching the sheets, fingers scrabbling against Brandon’s pants and Brandon bobs his head up, nurses the tip before he slides down again.

He works up a rhythm like that and takes Andy apart underneath him. Andy turns out to be the most responsive guy Brandon’s ever done this to, twitching and jerking and moaning every time Brandon does something new with his tongue. Brandon is so hard he can barely stand it, head going foggy with how much he wants Andy, wants to rock their naked bodies together, wants Andy’s hands, his mouth, his legs up over Brandon’s shoulders. He wants to make Andy come first though. And Andy is so ready for it, whimpers when Brandon lets his teeth graze against Andy’s length and then he comes, orgasm punching through him so fast he doesn’t even have time to warn Brandon. Brandon doesn’t mind, just tightens his hold on Andy’s wrists, swallows everything Andy gives him and keeps his mouth on him until Andy is sobbing moans into the sheets, hips jumping when Brandon pulls off and he looks so earnestly confused, like he doesn’t know if he wants to beg for more or ask what happened.

Brandon’s been so lost in the taste and feel of Andy, but getting himself off suddenly becomes a matter of dying from blue balls or jerking off on Andy right this second.

Andy just lies there, blinking up at Brandon as Brandon fists his cock, mouth an open o, skin rubbed red where Brandon’s kissed him, throat, chest, belly. He looks so good like that, looks like Brandon’s.

When Brandon comes, he works himself through it, keeping quiet and staring at Andy until he has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, Andy’s belly is streaked white with come and Andy is trailing his fingers through it, bringing them up to his mouth and licking them clean with a surprised hum.

“Fuck.” Brandon says.

Andy hums again.

-

Brandon wakes up the next morning to an empty bed and for a second his stomach plummets until he recognizes what woke him up in the first place; Andy is shuffling around out in the hallway, mumbling to someone.

Brandon stumbles out of bed and into the connecting bathroom, letting the shower run hot while he takes a piss. He gives himself the mandatory scrub down after stripping out of the pieces of his suit he didn’t manage to remove before passing out last night. He notes absently that he’ll need to get them dry cleaned. He brushes his teeth as he air-dries, drags a hand across his face and ignores his morning wood. He’s managed not to think of what happened last night so far, is hoping to get through breakfast at least, before it becomes the topic of conversation.

That plan is thrown right out the window by Andy when Brandon steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist the only thing keeping him decent.

Considering the fact that Andy is buck naked, Brandon feels practically overdressed.

“Hey.” Andy says. He’s sitting cross legged on Brandon’s bed, hickeys and hockey bruises dotting his pale skin, but otherwise completely bare.

 “Morning.” Brandon nods, tries to keep his eyes from wandering to the teeth marks at Andy’s throat.

“I took Mogali out.” Andy bites his lip, eyes unreadable.

“Thanks.” Brandon really, really wishes this conversation could wait until after caffeine, is about to suggest it when Andy gets up on his knees and holds his hand out.

No, not his hand, what’s in his hand; Andy holds the fucking collar out.

“Andy, what…?” Brandon looks at the collar, swallows. Since when was Brandon the stuttering virgin?

“C’mon, Brandon.” Andy shuffles forward, all of him on display and he’s as chubbed up as Brandon. “I want to.”

“You want to…put the collar on.” Brandon’s voice hasn’t broken since puberty, he is not about to let it start again now.

Andy nods eagerly, licks his lips and that’s really not fair, Brandon’s a sucker for Andy’s mouth. Apparently.

“Come on, Brandon.” Andy whines, pulling ridiculous puppy dog eyes and no, not puppy dog eyes, Brandon is definitely not going there, no need to make this even filthier than it already is. “Please?”

It’s the please that does him in, in the end.

Andy in a collar is really unlike anything Brandon has ever experienced. The second Brandon closes it around his neck, Andy goes putty in his hands.

He takes a few deep breaths, concentrates on the way his lungs expand. “Hey, Andy, you with me buddy?”

Andy raises his head, reflexes syrupy slow, but he looks up at Brandon with the dirtiest kind of wide-eyed look, like he wants to be owned, like he wants to obey.

“What do you want me to do, huh?” Brandon can’t help it, has to reach out and cup Andy’s cheek in his hand, stroke along his jaw and around his ear, scratch a little at the hair at the nape of his neck. “What do you want, Shawzy?”

Andy hums a little, works his mouth a few times before anything comes out. “Anything.” Andy says, and his voice is already shot to hell.

“Anything, huh?” Brandon slides his hand down to hold Andy’s chin, rubs the pad of his thumb against Andy’s wet lower lip. Brandon knows what he wants. “Wanna get your mouth on me?”

“Want you to…” Andy swallows, closes his eyes and nuzzles into Brandon’s hand, licks his fingers. “Want you to fuck me.”

Brandon thinks his brain might have short circuited there for a second. “You want me to…you want that? Andy, you sure?” Brandon wants to, fuck does he want to, but he’s not about to do something that Andy is just saying because he’s wearing a piece of leather around his throat and is too turned on to think straight.

“Wanted to.” Andy licks at Brandon’s palm, kisses the inside of his wrist and Brandon stands transfixed, can almost imagine he can feel his own heartbeat where Andy’s lips are pressed warm and chapped to his skin. “Every time you got in a fight.” Andy slurs his words a little, huffs when Brandon doesn’t respond. “In the showers, after, I wanted to so bad, Brandon.” Andy says wistfully and then he tips into Brandon’s body, moans when their skin touches. “Even on…even on the ice. Look so good out there. Always want you to fuck me.” All of Andy’s little speech comes out slow and languid, like Andy has all the time in the world to say it, like Brandon isn’t hanging onto his every word, having a minor heart attack at the thought of Andy wanting him for that long, at the thought of having Andy now.

“Fuck.” Brandon says and then Andy’s mouth is hot on his chest, moving aimlessly along Brandon’s ribs.

“Will you?” Andy asks, nosing up to Brandon’s armpit, licking absently at Brandon’s bicep. Brandon tightens his hand where he’s still cupping the side of Andy’s neck, digs his fingers in until Andy moans happily. Andy looks up at him then, eyes huge and he rubs up against Brandon’s towel when he gets in close to kiss Brandon. He murmurs against Brandon’s lips, arms around Brandon’s shoulders and nose bumping Brandon’s, breath damp between them. “Please?”

Andy is the most manipulative little shit Brandon’s ever come across, and that’s while wearing a collar that reduces him to twenty per cent reflexes and racks up his cuddliness to ridiculous levels.

Brandon tilts Andy’s head back, kissing him hard and punishing, trying to keep his head on straight when his hand inevitably makes contact with the leather around Andy’s throat.

If he ever even considered backing out, any doubts about continuing are effectively silenced when Andy whimpers, a sound so broken and desperate it makes Brandon’s blood boil when Brandon slips two fingers under the collar and tugs Andy up to lean on Brandon, licking into his mouth and swallowing Andy’s wet moans.

Brandon lets his other hand wander the expanse of Andy’s back, flexing muscles moving under warm skin as Brandon digs his fingers in, squeezes Andy’s waist, lets his fingers skim the top of Andy’s plump ass. He wants to get his hands on it, mark it up, make Andy beg for it.

“Turn around.” Brandon growls, aware that he sounds absolutely wrecked as he kisses Andy’s cheek and manhandles him onto the bed.

Andy fumbles to obey, getting his limbs under him and crawling around until he’s hands and knees in the middle of the mattress, ass in the air and head dropped between his shoulders. Brandon closes his eyes and tries to centre himself.

When he touches Andy, Andy jerks and then sighs, leaning back into Brandon’s hands as he palms Andy’s ass carefully, then more greedily when Andy responds by arching further.

“Fuck, Andy, you look so good for me.” Andy moans in reply, drops to his elbows when Brandon gets a hand at the small of his back and pushes up along his spine until Andy’s cheek is resting on the sheets.

Brandon can see the blush high on Andy’s cheekbone, black lashes fanned out across the flushed skin.

“Hey.” Brandon says and bends down to kiss Andy’s hip softly. “You okay?”

“Uhu.” Andy nods minutely, curving his back even further and practically offering his ass up on a silver platter, voice so high and breathless. “Please, Brandon.” Brandon doesn’t need to be asked twice.

The first taste of Andy’s ass is nothing but musk and warm skin and Brandon drags his tongue up across Andy’s hole, one broad swipe that makes Andy melt into the sheets with a gasp and then he pulls back, parts Andy’s cheeks with his hands and just looks.

Andy is so pink there, balls hanging dark and heavy between his legs and Brandon smooths his hands down, grips Andy’s thighs and slides them apart slowly, listening to Andy’s breath pick up as he’s arranged to Brandon’s liking. Andy’s skin turns red under Brandon’s fingers when he squeezes two handfuls of Andy’s ass, rubbing his thumbs along the crack and teasing at the edges of Andy’s hole.

Andy mewls and wriggles in his hold and Brandon makes him still, holds him open and kisses him right there, licking across Andy’s opening and making him slick with spit. It’s exhilarating, having Andy like this, feeling every tense of his body, hearing every low moan and breathless whine as Brandon works him open with his tongue, slipping his thumb in beside when Andy is loose and wet.

Brandon keeps a bottle of lube in his nightstand and when Andy rocks back and fucks himself lazily on Brandon’s thumb, it suddenly becomes paramount that he gets his fingers in Andy right this second.

When Brandon leans over Andy to reach the drawer, body covering Andy’s and cock bumping up against Andy’s bum through the towel, Andy gives a full body shiver and Brandon has to drop his face into Andy’s neck for a moment, press a kiss to his hair and breathe slowly so he doesn’t just rut up against Andy until they both come. Brandon wants more than that.

“It’s okay.” He soothes, kissing Andy’s cheek where it’s flushed hot under his lips.

“Yeah.” Andy breathes and tilts his ass up into Brandon’s cock, huffs when the towel rubs against his skin.

Brandon fumbles for the bottle and finally gets his knees under himself again, sitting back and taking in the way Andy spreads his legs wider on the mattress for him, the way Andy’s hole is shiny with spit. When Brandon presses lube slick fingers there, Andy moans and opens up for him until the first finger has slid in all the way, nothing but a smooth glide and Andy’s warmth tightening around him. Brandon’s dick gets impossibly harder, leaks against the inside of the towel and Brandon tugs it off, throws it to the floor and revels in the sight of his darkened skin against the pale of Andy’s legs.

He twists his finger, teases it in and out and then pushes a second in with it slowly, watches for any sign that he’s moving too fast, but Andy just sighs in satisfaction and leans into it.

A thought springs to Brandon’s head and fuck, he can’t believe he hadn’t figured to ask before. “Andy, hey.” He waits until Andy blinks his eye open dazedly, nearly all pupil when he strains to look back at Brandon. “Have you done this before?”

Andy licks his lips, shamelessly fucking back on Brandon’s fingers to the rhythm of his breathing. “Only my fingers.” He says and Brandon blanks, nothing but the image of Andy on his back, fucking himself with his own fingers, in Brandon’s head. “Wanted it to be you.”

“Fuck.” Brandon hisses and pushes his fingers in hard, Andy’s breath punching out of him on a broken moan. Brandon presses down again and Andy comes to life under his hands, thrashes and moans as Brandon works his sweet spot over and over until he’s ready for another finger and then it’s nothing but tight heat and the wet sounds of where Brandon’s fingers disappear into Andy.

Brandon should use a condom, would if it was anybody else. But it’s Andy, and they’re both professional hockey players, their medicals are accurate and thorough, Brandon knows they’re both clean.

“I need to…” Brandon wouldn’t notice if the building burnt down around them, all his focus on Andy and the sweat gathered at the small of his back, the lush cheeks of his ass in Brandon’s hands, his red bitten lips spilling the filthiest noises. Brandon grabs his cock with his lube coated hand, squeezes hard at the base and rubs the head across the back of Andy’s thigh, leaves sticky precome clinging to the reddened beard burn there. “Can I?”

Andy is nodding frantically, fisting the sheets and mumbling nonsense into his own arm. Brandon settles in closer, dick bumping up against Andy’s opening and Brandon needs to be inside him. Andy swears and pushes back. “Yeah, Brandon, fuh…”

The rest of his words are lost in his violent exhale when Brandon presses the head of his cock into him, Andy tensing around him for half a second before opening up and letting Brandon sink in, inch by agonizing inch until he’s buried deep in Andy, balls resting against the heat of Andy’s skin.

“Fuck, Andy.” Brandon moans, tightens his fingers around Andy’s hips and forces himself to still while Andy squirms on his cock. “Fuck, you feel so good. The best, Andy, the fucking best.”

“Please.” Andy gasps and Brandon jerks, fucking into Andy in a short stab that has them both groaning.

After that, Brandon loses himself in the wet slide of Andy around him, the slapping sounds when their skin comes together, the sounds Andy makes when Brandon angles down and drives into his prostate.

They’re both sweating and Brandon’s hands slip on Andy’s hips until he’s digging his fingers in to keep rhythm, leaving bruises at the dip of Andy’s waist.

Brandon fucks forward and Andy nearly topples with the force of it, moaning out Brandon’s name and tightening around Brandon.

He needs leverage, needs something, needs more.

When Andy shuffles his knee up the mattress, a continuous roll of movement pulsing through him as he rocks into Brandon’s hips, Brandon reaches down with one hand and catches his ankle, circles it with his fingers and holds on tight.

Andy tightens like a coiled spring, vibrating under Brandon’s hands and Brandon fucks into him harder, reaches under Andy with his other hand to jerk him off rough and fast and holds him still by his ankle, drags him down the bed when Andy stutters between the tight grip of Brandon’s fingers on his dick and the ruthless pounding of his prostate as Brandon ruts up into him in hard, sharp thrusts.

Andy comes between one second and the next, crying out and burying his face in the sheets of Brandon’s bed, ass tightening in pulses around Brandon’s dick and Brandon abandons all finesse, gripping onto Andy’s hip and fucking into him until his own orgasm rushes through him, black spots dancing in front of his eyes as he hunches over Andy and comes inside him, everything turning sticky and slow.

Andy collapses the moment Brandon lets him go, no doubt flopping right into the wet spot, but not seeming to care very much.

Not that Brandon has any higher brain functions left to brag about.

He lets himself fall carefully to the side, one leg still flung over Andy’s, arm around his waist.

They lay there for a long time like that, just breathing.

When Brandon finally has enough muscle control back to lift his head, he spies Andy’s dopy smile, face slack and eyelashes wet when he blinks them open to meet Brandon’s gaze.

“Good?” Brandon asks with a smirk.

“Mhm.” Andy grins and leans in to nuzzle under Brandon’s chin.

Brandon strokes a hand up Andy’s back to his neck and gently opens the collar, tugging it off and dropping it to the side on the mattress. He runs his fingers through Andy’s hair and kisses his temple.

“When do we have to give Mogali back?” Andy asks sleepily and Brandon logically knows they need to be out of bed at some point, that there is food and training to be done, but he just wants to lounge a little longer, bask in Andy’s warmth and the softness of his body against Brandon’s.

“I don’t know.” Brandon says, wrapping Andy up in his arms and tugging him up to rest on top of Brandon when Brandon rolls off. “Why?”

“I really like his collar.” Andy mumbles and rubs his face against Brandon’s chest.

Brandon tightens his hand at the back of Andy’s neck, leaning in to ghost a breath across his ear. “I’ll buy you a collar, Mutt.”

-

**Author's Note:**

> I am notoriously bad at leaving reviews myself, but if you wanna give me a few pointers on how to improve or even just a smiley face (or a frowny face if you feel like it, but then I would cry), I would love you forever, or slap your ass, which is like the hockey equivalent anyway.


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